by Anna Lord
Mrs Bagshott was still badly shaken and did not have much to offer by way of information. She had been hurrying to Jubbergate, minding her feet, when she banged straight into the hanging corpse. She thought at first it was a carcass of beef hanging on a hook, and then she thought it might be a leftover Guy Fawkes dummy and a nasty joke being played on the poor bookseller by the wicked boys who hang about the Snickelways.
“It did half-scare the life out of me,” she said, helping herself to a second scone, “and when I realized it was a dead boy, well, that set me off good and proper. There was no-one else going about. The Shambles is always dead quiet at that time of the morning, no barrow boys, no flower sellers, no pie-men, no pickpockets and no patterers neither!”
“From whence were you coming, Mrs Bagsott?” asked the inspector.
“From Fetter Lane.”
“So you crossed the Ouse and came up High Coppergate?”
She nodded as she stuffed half a buttered scone into her mouth.
“Why is it that you didn’t continue along Stonebow and Peaseholm Green all the way to Jubbergate? Why detour through the Shambles? It is out of your way,” he pointed out.
The char washed down the rest of her scone with a mouthful of tea. “I always pick up some kippers from the fishmonger in the Shambles. The cook does them for the master’s breakfast. He likes his kippers fresh and he is an early riser. I get paid thrippence extra for me trouble. The master is a Jew but he ain’t no Jew, if you knows what I mean,” she said, touching a canny finger to her nose. “He keeps a nice house just outside the city walls in Jewbury with others of his ilk. Knows his place.”
“Can you give me his address?”
Her eyes narrowed and her bottom lip protruded. “What fer? I don’t want to lose me job from blabbing to you! You don’t need to go bothering the master. You want to speak to me you come to number 7 Fetter Lane not Foss Bank House! You hear! I’m late as it is and I might get the boot for it if I don’t hurry along and get the master’s kippers!”
The inspector scribbled the two addresses in his notebook as the char rushed off then he pushed to his feet and announced he would have to continue on to the river to sort out the collision with the barges which had resulted in fisticuffs, a broken nose and damage to cargo which meant more strife by way of insurance claims. He had arranged an appointment with Mr Panglossian - who had since returned from London - for first thing this morning, but the doctor and the Countess would have to go it alone and let him know later what transpired. He didn’t think the death of the boy this morning had anything to do with the murders they were investigating, which meant he now had two separate murder investigations on his hands.
The Countess joined Dr Watson in the teashop to save Miss Titmarsh the trouble of bringing breakfast to the Mousehole. As they discussed the morning’s events over buttered muffins and scrambled eggs, the Countess noticed the rag-tag army returning to the dead body. They knelt around it. The youngest boy who had vomited began weeping piteously, while the eldest boy with the cloth cap bowed his head and said a few words. Mr Corbie, who was now scrubbing the blood from his step, stopped long enough to join them.
The arrival of a young constable to watch over the dead body until the horse and cart from the morgue arrived sent the Snickelwayers scurrying in different directions, except for the one with the cloth cap. He followed Mr Corbie into the bookshop.
“Settle the account and see what you can learn from Miss Titmarsh,” the Countess said quickly while wrapping the last two muffins in her linen and lace handkerchief. “Use your charm. What there is of it! I’m going to the bookshop.”
Talk about charm! Or what there was of it! She was the one stealing muffins!
Mr Corbie and the boy with the cloth cap were breakfasting on some porridge, though neither appeared very hungry. The Countess thought it had more to do with the tragedy of the morning rather than the unappetising appearance of the lumpy gruel. Magwitch was lapping up some warm milk from a chipped saucer.
“Good morning, Mr Corbie,” she said genially but not too brightly. “Miss Titmarsh asked me to bring you the last of her buttered muffins leftover from breakfast, oh, I see you have a friend with you. How fortuitous. There are two muffins. What a tragic thing that was this morning,” she rambled on conversationally, turning to the boy in the cloth cap. “Did you know the young lad who was killed? I thought perhaps you did because I saw you saying a prayer over his body just now.”
Patch turned bright red and pushed back his chair with the backs of his knees as if preparing to flee. The Countess kicked herself and Mr Corbie, remembering the fifty pounds warmly, intervened helpfully, adopting a fatherly tone.
“Patch this is Countess Volodymyrovna. She is staying at the Mousehole Inne with Dr John Watson who is the famous author of the chronicles of the consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Mr Hiboux told me the Countess, and her doctor friend, are also consulting detectives. They are assisting Inspector Bird with the York murders and perhaps the Countess thinks those murders might have had something to do with the death of Gin-Jim. Why don’t you sit back down, Patch, and have a muffin while I make some hot cocoa with milk. I’m sure your chimney-sweeping will keep. You can have both muffins. I am not very hungry this morning.”
The young chimneysweep sat back down, albeit warily, and eyed the muffins greedily. After the muffins had been consumed and several minutes of small talk had ensued and cups of cocoa had been dispensed, Patch relaxed his guard.
“Gin-Jim is an unusual name,” broached the Countess, proceeding cautiously while returning to the topic of the dead boy. “Did your friend like to drink gin?”
Patch laughed loudly before gulping his hot drink and licking his lips in appreciation. “It stands for Ginger Jimmy coz, er, because he had red hair. None of us use family names coz, er, because we don’t really have family, or if we do we don’t want them to find us so we make up names for ourselves. There is Fozzy the farter and Mugger and Stinky and, well, lots more.”
“Oh, yes, I see.” The Countess smiled indulgently. “Do you think the death of your friend, Gin-Jim, could have had anything to do with the murders in York?”
Patch shrugged and turned defensive. “How would I know a thing like that? And how could it? I heard tell the people who was killed was writers. Gin-Jim couldn’t write scat but his own name.”
“Yes, the people who died were all writers. More specifically they wrote penny dreadfuls. I am not suggesting Gin-Jim was a writer but could his death have been in any way related to penny dreadfuls?”
For a brief moment the boy looked frightened and the Countess knew she had struck a chord. She looked at Mr Corbie. He had noticed the flicker of fear in the boy too. He was looking at her to see if she’d noticed it. The bookseller intervened once more, adopting a paternal tone.
“Patch, why don’t you tell the Countess about the penny dreadfuls you rent out?”
Patch swallowed hard, coughed to clear his throat, and recounted how he bought ten dreadfuls each month which he then rented out for a halfpenny.
“Do you enjoy reading dreadfuls?” the Countess asked.
Patch nodded enthusiastically. “The stories take me out of myself. I forget everything bad in life when I read. I imagine myself in them. Sometimes I imagine I write them too.”
“Who taught you to read?”
“Miss Carterett. She’s smashing! Most of the boys learned from Miss Carterett. She’s the school mistress. The boys cannot get enough of dreadfuls. Miss Carterett learns the boys, er, I mean she teaches, for free.”
“Which books are the most popular?”
“Varney the Vampire and Jack Black the Highwayman are the best. The boys fight over who gets them first.”
“Which books did Gin-Jim like best?”
“Ghosthunter! He only just learned to read last summer and it has the easiest words. But lately his reading got better and he took a liking to stories with knights in them too.”
“You mea
n the books by Dick Lancelot?”
“Them's the ones!”
“What do you think Gin-Jim was doing in the Shambles so early in the morning?”
Patch immediately clamped up, dropped his gaze and gave a shrug of his bony shoulders.
“You can tell the Countess,” encouraged Mr Corbie gently. “She wants to find who killed Gin-Jim and she cannot do that if she doesn’t know what Gin-Jim was doing.”
The Countess spoke softly. “Is it possible Gin-Jim might have seen something or someone, or heard some news that got him killed?”
Patch continued to stare blankly at the kitchen table.
Mr Corbie tried again, “I occasionally saw Gin-Jim hurrying past my shop early in the morning, carrying a parcel. Do you think he might have been carrying a parcel this morning?”
Patch looked up and gave a reluctant nod. “Once a month or thereabouts he would carry a parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill.”
The Countess looked at Mr Corbie for clarification. “Is Gladhill another publisher?”
The bookseller shook his head. “It is the home of Mr Charles Dicksen, the world-famous author of Bleak Hall and Great Infatuations. Panglossian may very well be doing some editing of a manuscript prior to publication. Mr Charles Dicksen,” he finished emphatically, “does not write penny dreadfuls.”
Patch pulled a torn piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Mr Corbie. “I was going to ask you what you thought of this,” he said sheepishly. “Boz saw when the Countess pried it out of Gin-Jim’s hand and it flew off down the runnel and the inspector gave chase. After the inspector gave up, Boz kept after it and picked it up in the Pavement and passed it to me, thinking like it might be important. I can’t see what it means, though. I mean, I don’t see how it means anything. It’s just some letters that don’t even make a word. Still, I wanted to ask you what you thought it meant, Mr Corbie, that’s why I came in to see you just now.”
Mr Corbie glanced at it curiously. “BB,” he said quizzically, handing it on to the Countess. “Could they possibly be the initials of the killer?”
“I doubt it,” said the Countess, studying the paper which was of middling quality, sold almost everywhere. The letters however were beautifully formed using a fountain pen with a wide nib. “The scholarly sweep of the letters suggests someone who writes frequently with practiced ease. Besides, the boy would hardly own a fountain pen, nor would he have had time to write down the initials of his killer. Even if he knew in advance he was going to be killed it is unlikely he would carry a paper with the killer’s initials on it written in such lovely lettering.” Her elegant brows formed a puzzled frown. “If I am not mistaken I believe this scrap of paper has been torn since I last saw it. I’m sure it was slightly larger. I’m sure there was more writing on it than just the initials BB. You can just make out the start of the next letter but I cannot tell what it might be.” She looked earnestly at Patch. “Did your friend find the paper like this or did he tear it?”
“I can ask him,” said Patch. “But I don’t think he would tear it deliberate like.”
“Can Boz read?”
“No,” said Patch. “He is the youngest of our gang; just turned six. He was the one who chundered. That’s why he didn’t run like the rest of us when the inspector showed up. He was still feeling poorly.”
The Countess felt reassured that Boz would not have torn the paper because of something he recognized, a name perhaps, or a title. She was anxious to take another look at the penny dreadfuls. Which nom de plume had the initials BB?
“Where would I find Boz if I wanted to speak to him?”
“He works out by Castle Mills Bridge and sometimes when the tide is low he goes to the Fishpond.”
The Countess turned to Mr Corbie. “The fish pond?”
“It is a marshy area, east of the city.”
“What does Boz do there?”
“He goes mudlarking.”
Mr Panglossian was a stout man with an abundance of presence characterized by a booming voice, a trait common to successful, self-made, foreign-born men who have battled long and hard against the status quo of aristocratic entitlement and the English establishment. He had reached his sixtieth year, give or take some years, but showed none of the usual signs of ageing such as greyness or baldness. His hair was prodigiously thick and black with a large kink that kept the massy wave in place where it swept back. His skin was swarthy, his eyes dark and piercing. His nose was long and prominent and curved like that of a bird of prey. His face was clean shaven and jowly, his breath smelled of kippers smoked in a vat of amontillado.
“You must be Inspector Bird,” he boomed. “Come in, come in, been expecting you for the last hour.” He dismissed his male secretary with an abrupt sweep of his fat hand as if swatting a fly.
“Inspector Bird sends his apology,” explained the doctor. “He was unable to keep the appointment. I am Dr Watson and this is Countess Volodymyrovna. We are assisting the inspector with his investigation regarding the recent deaths in York. That is what we have come to speak to you about.”
“A terrible business,” he tut-tutted loudly, gesturing dramatically toward some leather wing chairs. “Five deaths! Take a seat. I think you should be looking for a lunatic. There is an asylum on the outskirts of the city and the supervision of the inmates is scandalous. Are you planning to write a book about the murders after you are done? Is that what brought you to Panglossian Publishing?”
Dr Watson shook his head. “The five women who were killed were all authoresses of penny dreadfuls,” he explained, grateful and yet slightly miffed that his name went unnoticed, especially by an important publisher.
“Ah! I see, I see! Like that, is it! Some lunatic out to kill off dreadful writers!”
“I think you might mean: writers of dreadfuls,” corrected the Countess.
“What? Oh, yes, indeed! Quite a different thing, isn’t it? Don’t want to get one confused with the other.” As he made his way back to his desk he ambled past a large French armoire and flung open the double door with a dramatic flourish. “Now, here is what we call the dreadfuller dreadfuls! Rejects! Hundreds of the blasted things every month!” He rolled his eyes as he closed the doors on manuscripts that would never see the light of day as books and moved to a sideboard. “A cup of tea for the Countess? And a sherry for you, doctor?”
“It is a bit early for me,” returned the doctor.
Mr Panglossian checked his pocket watch and frowned. “Ah, yes, I see what you mean! Not yet gone half-ten. I lose track of time; early riser, up with the birds. I have already checked our new printing presses – the most modern in the country - signed a dozen letters, perused the accounts with…Did you say you wanted a cup of tea, Countess? My secretary, Thrypp, most efficient man I ever employed, can see to it. The man brews a damn good Souchong; no end to his talents.”
It was hard enough to keep Mr Panglossian on track as it was. They did not need the added distraction of juggling teacups. “No, thank you, what do you do with all the rejects?”
“What? Well, I keep them until the cupboard begins to groan at me then I have a bookburning, so to speak, or more precisely a non-book-burning, about six times a year. Due for one now!”
“Do you have an editor who actually looks at them?”
“Certainly! What are you implying? I take umbrage! There may be a pearl among all that dross! I check every submission personally! That’s how I started in the business and that is how I mean to go on. I have a nose for the sort of thing that sells, and an eye too! Yes, I can tell at a glance, well, by the first page at least, if a story will be popular with our readers. Or not. I don’t go by fancy title or famous name or big words. I keep the ones for publication in the armoire over here. Right and left, you see. Right means publishing, left means off to the pyre.” With a wave of his big hand he indicated an armoire directly opposite the one he had briefly opened, containing all the rejects. “You’d be surprised who pens the best dreadfuls. We have so
me highbrow, educated, prominent people writing for us but most are ordinary folk who just have a knack for it. Most write for money, of course, but some write as a hobby and some write because they have a creative itch that needs scratching.”
“Does it pay well?” enquired the doctor in an interested monotone, not that he needed to supplement his income anymore, though in the past it might have come in handy.
“Not at first go, but if your dreadful proves popular there is certainly good money to be made. I liken it to hotcakes. If you sell one or two hotcakes you will soon starve to death but if you sell hundreds and hundreds of the things, well, there is no limit!”
“Are most of your authors of male or female persuasion?” quizzed the Countess.
Mr Panglossian returned to the seat majestically positioned behind his gargantuan desk and backed himself into it with regal precision, much like a king taking his throne under the watchful gaze of his adoring subjects, mindful of his royal dignity. “Are you sure I cannot interest you in a sherry, doctor? Or some tea for the Countess? Women, mostly.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?” pursued the Countess, shaking her head and smiling graciously. “No tea for me. I mean that most writers of dreadfuls are women since most of your readers are boys or young men drawn from the labouring class, is that correct?”
“Yes, yes, quite correct, but women have more time on their hands. Men are busy earning a living, labouring with their hands, expending sweat, taxing their brains, and so on. Women are sat at home all day, bored, idle, romanticising, daydreaming. They have time to put pen to paper.”
“That brings me to the next point,” said the Countess, gritting her teeth. “Noms de plume. Do you have a list of authors and their noms de plume that may help us with our investigation?”
Mr Panglossian shook his head emphatically, his glossy black helmet moved from side to side in determined concert with him without a single hair being displaced. “No, Countess, I do not, and even if I did I would not give it to you. Penny dreadfuls are not like normal books. They are a different beast altogether. The authors of dreadfuls put a high value on anonymity, hence the use of pen names by the vast majority. As I mentioned earlier, a lot of my authors are respectable people who move in exalted circles, they do not wish to have it known by all and sundry that they are writers of dreadfuls. They may be eminent persons of society: lords, ladies, barristers, professors, churchmen, and the like, they do not want it made public they pen stories for barrow boys and factory hands and the great unwashed. Besides, and this is the crux, a nom de plume adds to the curiosity and novelty value of the dreadfuls. What I call: the not-knowingness factor. If the barrow boy knew that the local schoolmaster wrote about the dangerous assignations of a highwayman, or worse, that the lonely old spinster who lived next door wrote about the derring-do of a brave knight or the swashbuckling exploits of a cut-throat pirate, well, it would kill the excitement, the mystique, the intrigue, the whole adventure of the thing. It would be less believable, less credible, and destroy the entire penny dreadful industry in one go. No, Countess, you may not have a list of authors and their noms de plume. Even if I kept such a list it would be over my dead body to see it handed it over to anyone for any reason whatsoever.”
